


Take it Easy

by Eurazba



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Prequel, chanting angst angst angst, headcanons, hector's time in the land of the dead, i'm just being mean to hector, it's gonna be a sad one, premovie
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-26
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-05-14 02:55:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14761260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eurazba/pseuds/Eurazba
Summary: Héctor's time in the Land of the Dead is a hard one.





	1. Bienvenidos

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I am pretty damn white, the most interaction I’ve had with Mexican culture is from my best friend I grew up with whose father was from Mexico and other friends and coworkers with Mexican heritage. If I get anything wrong, please tell me and I’ll try to fix it.

He woke up with a start.

It was bright, brighter than day it seemed, a beautiful blaring orange stretched on below him while every other color in the rainbow and then some came from every other direction above him, blaringly intense as it changed and shimmered in his blurred vision. There was a cacophony noise from every which way that was almost overbearing, Héctor wondered how he managed to sleep through it at all.

But it was wrong, all very wrong, this wasn’t dusty Mexico City like he remembered he was in. This wasn’t even another nameless inn that he and Ernesto had stayed in for the night, he wasn’t on a bed. He was most certainly on the ground, an odd, orange ground that was a mix of soft and hard. Was he lying on leaves?

Héctor pushed himself up into a sitting position, holding his head and trying to shake the fog from it so he could remember what happened last and where he was. He rubbed his hands over his eyes, thinking it weird at how hard his hands felt, stars he must be hung over.

He, he was with Ernesto, they had played in Mexico City for a few nights and it was their last night there before they headed off to the next city on the trains the next morning. They went to get something to eat and ended up singing in the bar for most of the night before returning to the inn they had stayed at. Héctor wanted to go home, to his family, his wife and daughter, he had thought about it for some time, at least a month. He and Ernesto had a toast, and then…

Then he collapsed and passed out while heading to the station.

“Maybe it was that Chorizo you ate?” Ernesto’s words rang through his head.

He didn’t remember anything after that, was he in a-

“Welcome to the Land of the Dead!” Someone said.

The voice jerked Héctor out of his confused daze and brought him to look up from where he had been staring at the ground in deep concentration. He squinted at the light all around him, the colors even brighter when he looked directly at them. What did the person say?

Héctor jerked back when his eyes focused and he saw a _skeleton_ standing before him, crouched low as they held out a hand for him. His head swiveled around wildly, all around him were other skeletons, each dressed in a number of different clothes ranging from nightgowns to suits to worn out street clothes, many with similar panicked looks while those in uniform stood patiently before them. He realized the ground of was marigold petals, not leaves.

“W-what did you say?” He asked as he turned back to uniformed skeleton before him.

They smiled, patient and unperturbed by his reaction, as if they had done this many times before.

“I said: “Welcome to the Land of the Dead!”” They repeated for him, their voice reverberated with another uniformed skeleton not too far away, “You’re dead amigo!”

Héctor felt his chest drop.

_Dead?_

He shot his hands out and saw bones instead of fleshy fingers, his eyes almost popped out of his head- or their socket, he put his bone hands over his face, somehow feeling the hard rock-like features of his skull. A woman next to him screamed, he felt like doing the same. Everything and everyone around him seemed to get louder, he heard the mumbling of words from what was hundreds of skeletons around him, a child cried for its parents, more uniformed skeletons welcomed and reassured the other newly dead like him, and old woman happily greeted them back as if she expected this.

Dead, he was dead, that can’t be right.

“Wait, wait, wait, that can’t be right,” He almost shouted as he jumped up and landed hard on his feet, an uncomfortably unfamiliar ripple went through his bones, “I can’t be dead!”

“Oh boy,” He heard the unformed skeleton before him mumble as they leaned back from their crouched position to meet his height.

“I… I have to get back to my wife and daughter!” He began shouting, “I have to get back to them, I was just going home!”

“We’ve got another veteran here,” They said to a few others in uniforms, they turned and began moving towards him.

“Veteran? No, I’m not a Veteran!” He gestured over his uniform, “Look, I’m a musician! I shouldn’t be dead, I need to get back to my wife and daughter!” He yelled more, taking a step back and almost tripping over the new skeleton that suddenly appeared on the ground behind him.

“The young ones always have such trouble,” Another uniformed skeleton said, holding their hands up in a surrender as they took a cautious step forward, like he was some kind of wild animal, “Señor, you’re dead. There’s nothing we or you can do about it, so if you just please come with up, we can get you registered and connected to your deceased family.”

“My family is _alive_!” He quickly retorted without a second thought.

“It’s okay amigo,” Another said in a softer voice, “We know it’s hard to hear bu-”

 Héctor tripped and fell on his back, his bones briefly tumbled away from each other before they quickly snapped back together. Instead of getting back up though, he just laid there, letting his mind spin as the words sank in.

Dead, dead-dead-dead-dead- _dead_. He was dead, and there was nothing he could do about it.

The uniformed skeleton who had originally greeted him walked into his line of sight and crouched down again.

“We know this is hard to hear amigo, that you’re dead. We’ve all gone through it. And it’s unfortunate that you’re such a young fellow with a budding family,” They said softly, their grey streaked hair fell over their face, they had lived a longer life than him, “But we’ll take you to get registered, you can meet up with whatever dead family you have here, and you can see your living family at the next Dia de Muertos.”

Héctor took a deep breath that just flew through his ribs more than anything. He didn’t really have a choice in the matter. Did he?

He could do that? Couldn’t he? Wait until Dia de los Muertos to see his family? It was only a few months until then. He nodded from his place on the ground and held his bony hand out so they could help him up.

The other uniformed skeletons went back to helping those around him as Héctor was told to cross the marigold bridge where others would show him where to go. He slowly walked across the bridge, watching how the petals would glow under each of his steps. Around him were a number of other skeletons, a few being flanked by unformed skeletons to guide them, they looked around at each other in amazement and then stared ahead at the incredible view of the city before them at the end of the bridge. The Land of the Dead was undeniably beautiful with its colors and lights flickering, towers that seemed to spiral upwards forever, filled with people- or skeletons- from all walks alike. He was really here, the Land of the Dead.

He approached an arched gateway that welcomed him and opened to a handful of trolleys, each with a different amount of fullness. One that was completely full was pulled along, Héctor watched it until he was guided to a partially full trolley cart by another unformed skeleton. He sat down next to a window and gazed out at the expanding scenery before him, only half listening to the trolley director as they announced that they would be leaving to the registration offices as soon as the cart was full.

People slowly filled the cart until it was as full as could be and lurched forward. An old woman sat next to him and they struck up a quiet conversation about the view, barely listening to the trolley director as they pointed out places of interest until the trolley slid into a station crawling with even more skeletons. The station was huge, bigger than any of the train stations he had ever seen in cities. With an incredible glass ceiling, stairs spiraling up to several floor levels and covered with beautiful, ornate decorations, and more booths and doors than he could count. The group was guided out of the trolley and through an arch labeled “Registration” that opened to a vast room filled with lines and lines of skeletons that all waited to enter more doors in the wall. A handful of free hanging desks sat to the left of the room as more uniformed skeletons spoke with those just registered and led them through a second arch on their side of the room and back to the open area of the station.

The group was slowly separated into the lines, one of them was special for children. There were only three people in front of Héctor in the line but they didn’t move. He took the time waiting to look through the arch to the many skeletons just outside the registration area, where they came from. Trolleys passing by filled with skeletons, others being reunited with their families, more uniformed skeletons guided some around, and skeletons with carts filled to the brim with mail scurried past. There was a little post office on the other side of the open room with a constant stream of skeletons that entered and exited its perpetually open doors. This building seemed to deal with more than just registering the recently dead.

“You should see this place on Dia de Muertos,” One uniformed skeleton said as they led more skeletons to line up behind Héctor.

The line slowly moved up, skeletons being let out of the rooms with handfuls of letters and led to the post office. The skeleton before him exited the room with their own stack of letters and Héctor was let in.

A thin, wispy, woman stood next to an office desk in the middle of the small room. Her bones weren’t as white as the many new skeletons just outside the door, but she stood just as firm as them, as if she hadn’t aged at all during her time dead, and she probably hadn’t. Behind her, a large window that showed off the grandeur of the Land of the Dead, all other walls surrounding the room were covered in book shelves stuffed tightly with papers and folders, almost ready to burst. Crisp, white papers and stacks of blank letters covered her desk with a number of pens and a wax stamping set. Even more folders were piled around the floor making the room even smaller than it actually was. The room moved like a whisper, occasionally a file would fade mystically from a shelf, while another would poof into existence on top of a pile of folders. A little path was cleared so he could walk up to the empty chair and sit.

“Sit, sit, sit, please, we have a lot a paperwork to do in such short time,” Her voice was welcoming and a warm smile graced her boney features as she gestured to the chair while grabbing a paper and a blank folder, “Can you read and write?”

“Ah, yes,” He answered.

“Good, good, this will go much faster,” She handed him the folder, paper, and a fountain pen, “Fill out your name and general information about yourself, then write down the family members that have already passed and may be waiting for you here as well as living family members that you would like to be reunited with when they die. And we can see if you’re on anyone’s lists. Can I get your name?”

“Uh, Héctor Rivera,” He said, taking the pen in his hand and looking over the form.

She jumped up and wandered around the room, he had no idea how she could find anything in the mess of files but she looked through them with a precision and knowledge that he could only guessed came from years of work. Héctor wrote his name in the marked space up top, next to it was his death date, already printed on the paper in neatly typed words. He brushed his fingers over the date, not noticing how a picture of him as a skeleton slowly appeared in a large blank place on the paper like it was being sketched in. He stared at the date for a long time once he finally noticed the image. That was him, but he was a skeleton, this was really starting to sink in.

He wrote down information about himself, where he lived, his place of birth and date, basic descriptors, it felt all very official. Flipping over the form, he saw there was a large section to write down family, spaces for parents, grandparents, siblings, spouses, children, aunts, uncles, cousins, great-grandparents, in-laws and just about anybody else you could think of. Every name space was flanked by two boxes, “alive or deceased”. Below that was a smaller section dedicated to friends.

Héctor looked at the “parents” category but paused, he had gone astray from his own parents after leaving home to become a musician, he didn’t even know if they were still alive. He skipped it, leaving the categories for most of the other family he had been born to also blank. An only child of only children left a small family, though he almost wrote Ernesto’s name in the “siblings” category before catching himself. When he reached the “spouses” category he quickly scribbled Imelda’s name down and checked the “alive” box next to it, but stopped, if she remarried, would he be able to find her?

“If-” He spoke up, but stopped when the lady he had been working with suddenly jerked her head up from a messy stack of files, she smiled and nodded at him to continue, “If my wife were to change her name, would I still be able to find her?”

“Oh, yes, yes, yes,” She reassured, with a light wave of her hand, “No need to worry about technicalities like that, we know who someone is even with a small name change.”

She gave him a wistful wink that made her seem older and wiser than previously thought before diving back down into the files. Héctor looked back down at the form and paused again at the “children” category, the thought of his dear, sweet Coco dying greatly saddened him, but he knew it was an eventuality that could not be avoided. He wrote down Coco’s name and checked the “alive” box next to it. His pen hovered over the paper as he moved down to the “in-laws” category, Imelda had a similar rift between her parents after going against their wishes and marrying a musician, namely him. So they likely wouldn’t be happy to see him at all, but Imelda’s brothers were actually at their wedding and occasionally came to visit, they would be good to have on this list. He scribbled down their names.

There wasn’t much else he could put in the family section, as for friends, he only had one that he felt was close enough that they see each other after passing. He wrote down Ernesto’s name and checked the “alive” box next to it just as the woman crouched over her desk and into his view.

“All done?” She asked, her smile a little more undone than it had at the beginning of their exchange.

“Yes,” he handed over the paper and she snatched it with a swirl, looking over what he wrote.

“All of your family and friends are alive?” She asked, not with pity in her voice, but worry.

“Yes.”

She sighed, slumping on her desk, “No passed family that you can think of?”

“None, that I might be on good terms with,” He answered sheepishly, almost ashamed at the answer.

“That’s okay,” She shook her head lightly, her voice was soft and he almost expected her to call him “m’ijo”, but she didn’t, “You didn’t come up in anyone’s files. It’s unfortunate to arrive the Land of the Dead and not find any family, but, it happens. I can direct you to the Department of New Homes so they can help you get a place to stay in. When your family eventually pass and arrive to the Land of the Dead, we’ll let you know and they can come live with you. We’ll also let you know when friends pass.”

He nodded and stood up when she began to lead him towards the door, placing the form in his folder and labeling it with his name before putting it on top of a wobbly stack of folders just like his almost at random, ready to be lost amongst the mountains of folders. Something told him that she would know where it was when she needed to.

* * *

 

The home Héctor was given was… _his home_.

The Department of New Homes was comparably small to the many offices he had passed, as many people when arriving to the Land of the Dead already had family to go to. There were only two other skeletons in the office who also needed new homes.

They had pulled up his file, somehow already having it on hand, and had taken him to what was supposed to be Santa Cecilia, the entire town, crammed into a little neighborhood that climbed up a few levels. He was taken to a little house towards the edge of the neighborhood, a couple of other houses with newer architecture flanked it’s sides. They were incredibly plain looking compared to the nearby inhabited homes, they lacked lights, decorations, and little homely touches. He was given a key to the little home and a paper describing some shops and other things nearby.

Despite the house not looking familiar on the outside, Héctor found that the inside of the house he was given looked exactly like his home in Santa Cecilia

A wave of homesick nostalgia that made him feel nauseous flew over him as he inspected the place. It was just like the home he, Imelda, and Coco lived in together, the place he had been trying to get back to, just with less decorations and only the bare minimum of furniture. The water closet was converted to a laundry room. It lacked a bathtub and left only a sink with a pitcher, a mirror mounted on the wall, a wash bucket and cleaning supplies. A window with a clothes line leading to even more buildings behind his new home let light into the room.

In the mirror he took the time to look over himself closely. Bright, colorful marks covered his skull in a most fantastic way much like all the other skeletons around him. It was alarming to see himself as a skeleton, the lack of nose, ears and the dark sockets around his eyes, but, by Héctor’s standards, he still looked good. He lifted his bangs to inspect the symmetrical marks on his forehead before pulling on his hair, it shifted slightly, like a wig, just sitting of his skull. Worriedly, he pushed his hair back in place, wondering how it didn’t fly off his head when he fell, and looked at the little beard that stuck to his chin. Like the hair on his head, it was easy to detach, but he found that it also reattached to his skull without problem when he stuck it back on. He looked at his hand, the bones not being held together by anything but instead floating perfectly in place, he grabbed a finger on one hand a pulled it off without so much as a pop or pinch of pain. He bent the finger removed from his hand and gave an airy laugh when it moved to his command, putting it back on his hand with as much ease as putting his beard back on.

On the sink there was a little basket filled with items, a little canister of “Bone Polish”, and some soaps for laundry, Héctor remembers them being mentioned as complimentary for his arrival to the Land of the Dead without family. Technically, he and the two others that had received homes from the Department of New Homes had nothing, no family to join and no items except what was on their person.

Out of curiosity, Héctor checked the pockets of his charro suit to see what he had on him. First loosening and removing the bow around his neck and tossing it to the nightstand, he found it hard to breath with it on and everything happening to him despite not needing to breath for being dead. In his pockets, a few coins, a little red handkerchief from Imelda, and a picture of himself used for flyers of his and Ernesto’s shows.

That was it. That, the house, and the clothes on his back was all he had to himself. A lonely exhaustion covered him, he was tired, wanting to do nothing but sleep. Not even knowing if skeleton’s needed sleep but peeling off his jacket none the less and crawling into the familiar bed. It felt too big, without Imelda in it beside him, and the room felt too quiet without Ernesto’s snoring he had become all too accustomed to over the last few months.

With a heavy heart he sang the song he wrote for his Coco, his voiced warbled more than typical as he felt his chest grow heavier and heavier with each note, and a growing pressure behind his eyes. He wasn’t going home; this false home was all he had now. He finally broke down, letting the sadness of his situation and the exhaustion of crying and singing slowly pull him to some kind of sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey this is my other fic! It’s a headcanon heavy take on what happened to Héctor over the years in the Land of the Dead (lotta angst) and will probably only update every 2 weeks as I have much less of it written out beforehand and I want to keep on schedule for my other Coco fic so it finishes in a couple of weeks.  
> Chapter titles were going to be lyrics from “Men of Erin” by the Elders which I really feel fits Héctor’s story well. But I decided to keep it simple. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z3Ob8lsqqqU (this is the best version)  
> Please tell me what you think!


	2. Friends and Friends Alike

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know how I said this would update in 2 weeks? That… was a lie. And I apologize for doing that.  
> And despite 6 months of not even touching this fic, I promise that I have not forgotten it, I’ve just been very, very, very negligent. There will not be a schedule for this fic (not that I can ever keep one), it will just update whenever.

The skeletons here were all very nice to him, pityingly sympathetic upon learning that he had no dead family to be with, and happy to explain the rules of the Land of the Dead to someone new like him. He managed to befriend a handful of tailors who were nice enough to make him an extra set of clothes so he wasn’t in his charro suit all the time.

Just as well, Héctor found it was easy to make friends in the Land of the Dead, everyone was incredibly friendly here. Being the social person that he was, it wasn’t difficult to find someone new to chat with, and everyone was happy to chat as well. In the Land of the Living, there was always work to be done, reasons to keep moving along, but here, that wasn’t necessary. Sure, people worked, but that was mostly out of want for something to do, it was fulfilling to make, even if you didn’t need it to survive.

Along with friends came many invitations to have dinner with their family, particularly when they learned he had only recently died, and therefor didn’t have any offerings of his own. He always felt bad, eating their offerings, but everyone insisted, the offerings were theirs to share. The joke of “you need to eat, look at how skinny you are” came up many a time and never ceased to make a room of skeletons fall into piles upon piles of bones in laughter.

Friends and family of friends certainly made it less lonely for Héctor without his own family here, but it didn’t distract from the nights he was without company. The nights he found himself singing song after song to quell his aching heart.

While skeletons could sleep, they didn’t necessarily need as much sleep as they did when alive, it made the nights on his own even longer. He’d watch the never-ending glitter of lights from his window, singing his songs and letting them echo throughout the ally way behind the building that housed him, he couldn’t bring himself to call it home yet. The neighbors never complained, luckily, and occasionally he would catch a young neighbor girl singing along with him.

It wasn’t until a few weeks after his arrival that he finally spotter her from where she was hiding, from a couple levels down, there was a window, or technically a balcony, lined by pretty orange curtains that she partially hid behind and a simple wrought iron fence. She was far younger than him, the poor girl, but still older than his Coco. When he finally found her and looked at her, she giggled and made a face at him, hiding further behind her curtains, he laughed and made a face back, so much like his Coco despite how much older she was.

A little spirit to make him less lonely.

* * *

 

The change in atmosphere in the Land of the Dead as Día de los Muertos approached was intoxicating. More colored lights were put out on people’s homes, roman candles and sporadic fireworks were everywhere, and everyone was filled with an excitement that Héctor couldn’t help but join.

He was going to see his family again!

It was sad, he wouldn’t be alive to see them again, they wouldn’t know he was right exactly there, but he was going to see them again, and that was enough.

His tailor friends were nice enough to dry clean his suit so he could look his best for his first Día de los Muertos. There were many others who were also happy to help explain the rules of the holiday to a first-timer such as himself and help him along to where he needed to go.

The station that he had been registered at was even busier on Día de los Muertos. In the Department of Family Reunions, lines of skeletons stood waiting for booths to help them get to where they needed, desks covered in their own piles of papers and blocky typewriters were scattered around the area each dealing with a skeleton having problems for the holiday. Héctor waited in line for one of the booths, hoping they could tell him where to go. With so many bridges and gates he wasn’t sure which one was the right one. When he reached the booth, he explained to the uniformed skeleton behind it that he didn’t have any family with him, it was his first Día de los Muertos, and he needed to get to Santa Cecelia. They happily gave him a small map and told him how to get to the proper gate, they explained about having any offerings he got from the Land of the Living ready for re-entry so they could be recorded.

He hung out the back of the trolley, letting the breeze flow through him as he excitedly watched the gate and marigold bridge for Santa Cecelia come into view. He got off the trolley with a bounce and walked over to the short line of skeletons also trying to get to Santa Cecelia. He watched the front of the line in fascination as a picture would be taken of the skeleton up front, with a nicer camera than he had even seen for his family photo with Imelda and Coco. A piece of glossy paper used for photos sitting before the uniformed skeleton taking it would then change into a picture or an occasional drawing of the skeleton from when they were alive, their picture on the ofrenda. They were told where the picture was, usually a family member’s or maybe sometimes a friend’s ofrenda, and led to go on their way across the bright marigold bridge. The process was all very magical and Héctor couldn’t help but stare in wonder, until he was at the front of the line. He was taken out of his daze and looked up at the camera, nervous about the process.

“This is my first time so…” He explained to the uniformed skeleton before him, trailing off.

She smiled sympathetically and instructed him to look at the camera, he did and heard it make a noisy snap. She then looked down at the perpetually changing picture before her and waited, it seemed to take longer than the others for the image to change, but when it did, she frowned,

“I’m sorry Señor, your picture isn’t on the ofrenda,” She sadly explained.

Hector felt himself deflate, he remembered someone explaining that without your picture being put up on the ofrenda, you wouldn’t be able to cross over into the Land of the Living. He wouldn’t be able to see Imelda and Coco.

“A-are you sure?” He asked, looking over the booth wall and seeing the photo paper.

It was an inky black.

“I’m sorry Señor, if your picture isn’t up on the ofrenda, then you can’t cross over,” She explained, worriedly, “You can go to the Department of Family Reunions and talk with them about it, they should be able to help you figure out what is happening.”

Héctor felt a little bubble of anger, he was _just_ there. He sighed and shuffled past those in line behind him, heading to wait for the next trolley.

Back at the station, he was guided back to the Department of Family Reunions to an open desk after asking a uniformed skeleton where he could go to help with his picture not being on the ofrenda.

The skeleton sitting behind the desk looked tired, like she had been dealing with problems for most of his night, but she easily pulled out Héctor’s file when given his name without looking and opened it to glance through.

“You said your picture’s not on any ofrenda?” She asked looking over the file and repeating what the uniformed skeleton said when they brought Héctor over.

“Yes, that’s what they told me at the gate,” Héctor answered.

“And that’s what your file says as well,” She confirmed, looking intently through the file, “All of your family is living,” She mumbled to herself.

“Yes, my wife, she should have put my picture up,” Héctor elaborated.

She snapped the file closed and looked Héctor in the eye, “I understand this is your first year being dead?”

“Yes? I’ve only been dead for a few months.”

“Tell me did you die away from home? Was there a way for your family to know that you’re dead?” She asked calmly, Héctor was a bit taken aback, he hadn’t considered that.

“I- yes, I was traveling, but I was with my friend, he was with me when I died,” Héctor confirmed, but couldn’t help but be bothered when it then occurred to him that not even Ernesto put his picture up, “They should know that I’m dead, he must have told them.”

“Listen sir, I know this is hard for your first Día de los Muertos, but this happens for a lot of veterans whe-”

“I am not a veteran!” Héctor snapped, jumping up and gesturing to his outfit, “I am a musician!”

The skeleton shrank into her desk, afraid of Héctor’s little outburst, but the recognitions in her eyes told Héctor that this was not the first time she had seen this. Héctor sat back down, immediately regretting it, and sighed.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that, this isn’t your fault,” He quickly apologized, and the skeleton behind the desk relaxed.

“I’m sorry Señor, this is just something that _typically_ happens with veterans,” She elaborated, “There’s a chance that your amigo might not have been able to reach your family in time to tell them. You’ll have to try next year, I’m sorry.”

“Is there nothing you can do?” Héctor asked pleadingly, “Please I just want to see my family.”

“I’m sorry amigo,” She repeated, his voice softer, “I know this is hard, but your photo isn’t on the ofrenda. There’s nothing we can do to help you cross over. You’ll have to wait until next year.”

Héctor deflated, slumping in the chair at the heavy weight suddenly pushing down on his chest, his loosened the bow around his neck.

“I… okay.” He said, pulling himself up with agonizingly slow movements.

A few months, he could manage, though they were lonely even with the friends he made, but a year? That was too long.

…It wouldn’t hurt if he just went over, would it? It’s not like anyone here would care, and he needed to see his family, just for a moment.

The ride back to Santa Cecelia’s bridge was tense as Héctor planned for how he would sneak past the gate and across the marigold bridge. There were a greater number of skeletons at the gate now, all crowded around and animatedly chatting with one another. All distracted, not noticing when Héctor went over to the far end of the gate and just… slipped through.

He tried to look as inconspicuous as possible, walking by another group of skeletons and appearing like he belonged. The officers had yet to notice him as he approached the marigold bridge, he could just walk over and-

At the first step in the petals, Héctor’s foot broke through their surface and sunk in up to his knee like he just stepped in water. Skeletons around him gasped and backed up, watching as he stumbled backwards away from the bridge and back onto the solid ground behind him. Petals covered his leg from where he sunk in as he scooted away from the bridge and watched it with terror.

He had just… _sunk in_.

Two guards were by him at a moment’s notice.

“Señor, Señor, are you alright?” They asked, leaning down to his side.

“I… I just sunk in,” Héctor mumbled disbelievingly.

“…Do you, do you have a picture on the ofrenda?” One guard asked, both looked at him with suspicion.

“I- No. They said I didn’t, that maybe my family didn’t know I was dead yet, but… that _can’t_ be right,” He muttered, trying to hide the tight feeling growing in his chest.

The guards’ expressions changed from suspicious to sympathetic.

“Is this your first Día de Muertos?” The other asked, Héctor nodded and they sighed, “I’m sorry Señor, but without a picture on the ofrenda, you can’t cross the bridge.”

There it was again, that cruel rule that seemed to be following him around all night. It made no sense, was it really so bad for him to go and see his family without a picture?

“Why?” He turned to one of the guards.

“…It’s just… the rules,” they shrugged.

Dull dissatisfaction flowed through him at the answer as he looked out at the expanding bridge before him, he couldn’t make out the other end no matter how hard he focused. Santa Cecelia was far, too, too far away.

“Come on,” The guards stood up, one of them offered their hand.

He grabbed it and they help pull him up, they turn back to the gate and lead him away from the bridge. He watched the marigolds longingly until the structure of the gate blocked his view, the guards shuffle in front of him and gave a warning.

“Now don’t try that again Señor, it’s dangerous,” They said.

He blindly nodded back to them and they let him go, but he didn’t move, he just stood there, his mind swimming.

“I need a drink,” He mumbled.

* * *

 

Everyone had a dying story, because everyone had to die to come to the Land of the Dead.

Amongst most people, dying stories weren’t very popular, there were only so many times someone could say “Spanish flu” before it got boring. But among veterans, street fighters, and bandits, sharing dying stories was like a game. They’d all gather in a circle often with a bottle of booze and a number of shot glasses, telling mighty tales of how they died in combat, fighting until their last breath. Each one would try to one up each other, over-embellishing their own stories.

“Oh that’s nothing! I was-”

“And I saw the cannon-”

“-Right up until the last bullet landed right between my eyes.”

They would gather small crowds of onlookers, curious about the stories, and the circle of sharers would ask those around them “Would you like to share you dying story too?” If they answered “no”, and most did, it was left at that. Dying was a hard thing for people. Though some of those that did say “yes” often didn’t know how to tell a good story like those who started the sharing did. There was a big difference between “I was shot in the war of so-and-so” and telling a long harboring story of fighting for your loved ones leading up to when you finally, actually died.

Héctor was drawn by them too, by some kind of irony that the officers had seen with him when he first died and during his issues with Día de Muertos, he did share some commonalities with them. While most stories were boisterous and grand, many others often would end on a solemn note, where they never saw their family, their loved ones, ever again. The circle would quiet down in a silent agreement before taking a round of drinks and diving right into another story.

Héctor had been listening to this particularly large group of what seemed to be mostly veterans share their stories for most of the day before they finally turned to him amongst the group of onlookers and asked if he had a dying story to share.

“Yeah, alright I have one,” Héctor agreed, taking a step forward.

He had been thinking over how to properly embellish his story for some time should a group like this actually ask him, not wanting them to get bored by his admittedly humble story.

“Ay, ay, he’s a músico!” One of the older and very drunk veterans said, noticing his charro suit.

“Play for us while you tell us our story!” Another cheered.

“Alright, but I need a guitar.”

“Ay! Someone get him a guitar!” One shouted while they all leaned back for a moment looking around the crowd to see if anyone had a guitar to spare.

They pushed him into an open seat and a guitar managed to mysteriously make its way into his arms, though it wasn’t all too unfamiliar. Many skeletons would ask him to play him some music when he went out in his suit, he happily agreed, for music was one of the few things that managed to keep him going through his time here. And when he told people that he didn’t have a guitar, they happily would find and lend him one just to hear him play.

He gave it a quick tune before plucking out a little melody that he could tell his story with.

“My amigo Ernesto and I were like brothers. We had known each other since we were kids and played music together for years in our town plaza. We started traveling, wanting to share our music and play for everyone around us-”

“Ay! Ay! What’s his name? His full name! Is he famous?” Someone interrupted, it wasn’t an uncommon occurrence, but Héctor briefly lost his tune.

“Are _you_ famous?” Another asked.

Héctor laughed lightly “His name was Ernesto de la Cruz,” everyone looked amongst themselves curiously, they hadn’t heard of him. Héctor picked up his tune again, “And _no,_ we weren’t famous, though my amigo really, really wanted to be. We were just starting out, setting up shows in towns all over Mexico, trying to get our names out, to be heard, and Ernesto was certain that we were about to hit our big break in Mexico City. But we had been on the road for months. I was losing my inspiration, my darling daughter, and my beautiful wife, my muses, were so far away. I was getting homesick.”

There was a mumble of agreement amongst the group, having all been through their own share of homesickness.

“We got a bite to eat and spent the night singing in a bar, I had made up my mind by the end of the night to return home. I packed up my things, and Ernesto, he begged me not to leave. I was one who actually wrote our songs and taught him everything he knew about playing the guitar. We performed all kinds of known songs together, but the crowds really went wild for the songs I wrote. Ernesto told me he couldn’t do this without my songs, I told him that I was going home. He could hate me if he wanted, but I needed to see my family.”

The circled leaned forward in anticipation, expecting some kind of fight between him and Ernesto like so many of their stories would have, possibly expecting him to have killed Héctor. But Ernesto wouldn’t do that.

“He was quick to calm down, like me he probably didn’t want us to leave on a bad note, we had been friends far too long for that. He offered a toast just before I left, to our friendship. We drank and he walked me to the train station, but…” He slowed down the story, letting the tone of the story decline with the note of his guitar, the circle watched him curiously, “I felt a pain in my stomach, my suitcase and my guitar suddenly too heavy for me to hold. The last thing I remember hearing was my amigo’s voice, asking if it was that chorizo I ate… And then I collapsed. …I woke up here, dead, never to see my wife and daughter again, just as I was returning to them.”

His voice was nearly a whisper as he let the final note hang in the air. A solemn silence filled the circle, all knowing the feeling of never being able to return to loved ones. They each took a drink, handing a glass to Héctor as thanks for sharing his story. He downed it quickly, letting the burn calm his nerves at sharing something so personal. Evidentially it relaxed the other’s nerves even quicker than his own as one person was quick to change the tone of the group and more embarrassingly the tone of his story.

“Wait, wait, so you died choking on a chorizo?” They asked, there was a wave of chuckles through the group.

Héctor frowned, “No. It was food poisoning, probably from the chorizo I ate.”

It didn’t help the round of laughs through the crowd, some mumbling of “Chorizo” under their breaths.

“How do you know your friend wasn’t the one to poison you?” Someone asked, changing the mood once again to an admittedly darker one.

Héctor let out a laugh, “Ernesto wouldn’t do that, we were like brothers, besides he wouldn’t have me to write him more songs to play.”

The circle seemed disappointed by that explanation, hoping for some grand rivalry between them. Still someone tried.

“Okay, but how do you know your amigo didn’t go back to your home and seduce your beautiful lady?” They asked.

Héctor threw back his head and howled.

“Are you kidding me? My wife TERRIFIES him!” Héctor got out between his laughs, “My wife, she… She’s fierce, like a jaguar, and Ernesto, in comparison he’s like a little Chihuahua. Once-oh man, once Ernesto and I tried to cut my daughters hair, we had no idea what we were doing and ended up making a complete mess of her head. My wife, ooh, when Imelda found out she nearly killed us! She was fuming, scolding us to hell and back, hit us with her shoe a couple of time too. And oh man, Ernesto, he looked like he was ready to wet himself he was so scared of her!” The circle had burst out into howls of laughter at his story, Héctor couldn’t help but laugh along with them.

“Ay, does your wife have a sister? She sounds just like my old lady!” A man yelled out, Héctor shook his head but they all continued their laughter.

They left their dying stories behind to listen to Héctor play and sing, goading songs out of him even after he insisted that he should go home for the night. It was an easy thing to do since his house was so lonely, and with a small crowd of listeners, it was easier to pretend that he had some family with him.


End file.
